


The John Constellation

by stillaseeker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Howl's Moving Castle Fusion, Gen, Kidlock, M/M, POV Outsider, Pre-Slash, Star!John, Wizardlock, Wizards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:45:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1371076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillaseeker/pseuds/stillaseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obviously, Mycroft had seen falling stars before. However, he had never seen a star land in his garden.</p>
<p>(Star!John AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The John Constellation

_Take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic_

\- Frida Kahlo

::

It was a clear day when the star fell out of the sky.

A fine day to revisit the classics, Mycroft thought, when the English sky was, for once, as blue as the Mediterranean, with only wisps of clouds interrupting its endless expanse. They stretched across the sky like the thin strings of Orpheus’ lyre, gleaming golden in the sun. Orpheus was just about to descend into the Underworld, and Mycroft was just about to sip his lukewarm lemonade, handling the book with his fingertips to avoid staining it with his palm, tackily moist from a mixture of condensation and sweat, when the sky caught fire.

In the intervening years, Mycroft had grudgingly come to accept that for once, this fire had _not_ been triggered by Sherlock.

Obviously, Mycroft had seen falling stars before. However, he had never seen a star land in his garden. Groundskeeping issues aside, this was also the garden into which he had banished his seven year-old brother and his puppy earlier that afternoon, and even now he could hear Redbeard’s excited yips, growing fainter as Sherlock’s shouts faded in the direction of star-burnt foliage.

Repressing a sigh, Mycroft carefully closed his book, and cast a wince at his freshly-shone leather brogues before he set off in their muddy footsteps.

::

It took Mycroft seven minutes longer than his initial estimate to find them. Their home, while fairly modest, bordered a small forest that undulated across a series of low hills, and physical climbing — unlike the figurative kind — had never been Mycroft’s forte.

“ _Andromeda_ or _Hydra_?”

“S-Sorry?”

“Which was it? The constellation you fell from?”

Mycroft had a system for categorizing memories. He found visual techniques too haphazard compared to the cool precision of letters; they were too ungainly, too impressionistic. As his years and memories accumulated, he encrypted them — words became ciphers, lines of code quietly pressed between the pristine pages of his mind. Memories associated with Sherlock had always been coded _Orpheus_ , and this memory, in particular, was filed under _Inque tuo sedisti, Sisyphe, saxo_. 

It was an Ovidian reference — a discomfitingly sentimental choice, from the same book Mycroft had been reading that afternoon. In the Underworld, Orpheus plays a song to bring Eurydice back from the dead, and the beauty of his song stirs even Sisyphus, doomed to ceaselessly roll a boulder up a hill, but never to succeed. As Orpheus plays, Sisyphus pauses his eternal labour to listen, spellbound. Starstruck. _You sat upon your rock, Sisyphus._

The star was a little boy, not much older than Sherlock. 

Sun-dappled by the light filtering through dense trees, the two boys stared at each other — one a young wizard, the other a young star. Even Redbeard was oddly silent, his puppy breaths hushed. The star glowed faintly against darkness of their little copse, haloed in his own light.

He was already fading.

Sherlock lurched forward, just in time to catch the star before he folded, like a paper lantern collapsing upon itself. Curlicues of light, like tiny catherine wheels, emanated from his chest before dissipating.

“What’s wrong?” There was a note in Sherlock’s voice that was uncomfortably close to panic. Unerringly, despite Mycroft not having made a sound, Sherlock swung his head in his direction. “Mycroft! What’s happening?”

Up close, Mycroft observed that the star’s eyes were a deep blue, not unlike the heart of a flame.

“He’s dying, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft leaned over the star, careful not to jostle either him or Sherlock, who was crouched over his shimmering form. “It’s unlikely for a star to survive a fall like that. Especially not one so young.”

Sherlock gasped. When Mycroft turned his head to look at him, he saw his brother mouth the word _dying_ , as if struggling to comprehend it.

“We will need to make him as comfortable as we can,” Mycroft continued, extending an arm to brush a lock of blonde hair off the star’s face. As gently as he could, Mycroft asked, “What’s your name?”

“I—” the star faltered, blinking his eyes. “My name’s John.”

“There isn’t a star called John!” 

“Sherlock, now is not the time—”

But the star was laughing — giggling, in fact, his light flaring brighter for a second before dimming. “No, it’s alright.” He smiled at Sherlock, his eyes creasing at the corners. “I don’t expect wizards know _all_ the names of the stars. John’s not a common name where I’m from.”

“It’s a common name here.” Sherlock bent over the star, so close that their faces were almost touching.

“Is it really?” The smile flashed again, blindingly bright, like a lighthouse beam illuminating the dark, before fading. 

“I never lie.” To someone else, Sherlock would have sounded proud, almost defiant, but Mycroft heard the tremble undercutting his voice.

“I bet you never do.”

The words were low, softly spoken. The star was fading at a disquietingly fast rate. Small bouquets of light continued to cartwheel from the star’s heart into the air around them, flickering like candlelight against Sherlock’s face.  Mycroft doubted he would last the hour.

The star’s eyes fell shut again before slowly blinking open, holding Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Mycroft. Why…?” Sherlock’s voice trailed upwards alarmingly. In a typical disregard for personal space, he cupped his hands around the star’s face. Mycroft wondered why he had never realized Sherlock’s hands were so small.

“Falling stars…their chances of survival are always low, Sherlock. They’re not like shooting stars. They’re losing power, and will continue to do so unless they find an alternate energy source.”

“What kind of energy? Like…a spell?” 

Mycroft exhaled, his chest straining against the buttons on his waistcoat. “To power a star, I’m afraid even the strongest spell may not suffice. No, it would take something much more powerful.” 

Knowing what he did now, sometimes Mycroft wondered whether he would have said what he did next. 

He knew he would not have tossed the words out so carelessly, so unthinkingly.

“He needs a wizard’s heart.”

::

 

**Author's Note:**

> I adore feedback - please leave a comment if you enjoyed reading :)
> 
> Fun fact: Mycroft's code name for himself is Sisyphus.


End file.
